Kaka and Kabab

It was a cold, cold night in Delhi. The mercury touched an all time low in December. We, a handful of journalist friends, thought it would be wise to head towards Jama Masjid. The idea was to grab some quick hot kebabs knowing that Old Delhi is the only place on the earth which would stay awake even after midnight. That’s the best part of purani Dilli. If you are hungry and looking for some food in the night then the Walled City is a heaven for you.

Roasted chicken, fried chicken. Rumali, khameeri roti. Shami kabab, boti kabab. Your mouth starts watering understanding that working late hours at office and then frowning over the routine canteen stuff can take you to only one destination for a change of your taste buds. And then a ride through the deserted Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg in a spotless maroon Ambadassador car ignoring the Hondas, Ascents, Corollas.

It was all so otherworldly, like being in a hill resort. The city noise had faded to a distant hum. The air had grown thinner. And Jama Masjid was just an arm-length’s away.

As we parked the car adjacent to Gate No. 1 of the historic monument, Kaleem, a young guy in his early 20s, rushed towards us. “Sahab kya chahiye?” A bearded old man in his 70s (probably the owner) was wearing a spotless kurta, pyjama and shouting instructions in his chaste Dilli Chey (six) accent. He seemed to be a devout Muslim. He was wearing a skull cap wrapped with a muffler and sat near a angithi (charcoal fire). It was severe cold and the chilly wind was piercing through the thick woollen cover. “Kabab aur rumali roti le ao,” One of our friends got a little excited at the prospect grabbing hot kababs and roti. Kaleem was happy. So was his owner. After all, you don’t often get such wonderful customers late in this cold December night. Good business, yeh.

As my mind traversed through the space (old Delhi), Kaka, the ace Brazilian footballer popped up! That too in front of the stony Jama Masjid looking lonely amid the concrete of Delhi’s unplanned modern architecture.

Well, well, well. Wait. Let me tell you how the Brazilian accompanied us to the roadside kabab stall. My friend, who is a great football follower and owner of that swanky ambassador and, suddenly paused. He didn’t pick up that last piece of chicken from the plate. He glanced upon on this piece of newspaper (which served as a tissue paper for the kababwala) and which Kaleem had given us to clean our hands. “Hey see, Kaka is here. And see who has written this write-up,” his face flashed like a thousand-watt neon lamps. He probably didn’t expect to see his byline on the bylane of Jama Masjid. He broke into a huge laughter. I too joined him. The world is too small a place. I wondered.

We were happy. For both kabab and Kaka. Though Kaleem didn’t understand the significance of our conversation. For him we were just kabab lovers who ate and did ‘wah wah’. But for both of us (we had covered the Vijayans, Pappachans, Krishanus & Bhutias with passion over years), the subject was interesting. Kaka and kabab.

Babumoshai

Can I use the term pseudo for Bengalis? Well, my friends in Calcutta and elsewhere, please spare me from using such a 'harsh' word. But then I am helpless. When I watch the Bengal's Leftist leaders, I am forced to use the word. When I watch their movies (I have stopped watching though after film producers had turned copycats with lots of dishum-dishum action-packed remakes of Bollywood-Hollywood movies flooded Tollygunge), I am convinced they are real fake. Babumoshais (gentleman) have become pretenders.

Then in football. Probably, I was told, it was their sera khela (favourite sport). But it isn’t. Just like losing their sheer joy of procuring a or a shrimp from a macher bajar (fish market), football too has ceased to be a passionate game for the Bongs. Ask any old-timer about cricket and he will tell you that it is a game played by imperialists. But it is not that Bangalis don't love cricket. Any given day, they throng the hallowed Eden Gardens to watch any ODIs and the disco dance of cricket -- T20. I was also told that the passion generated by cricket was nothing compared to that generated by the daddy of all games – football which is mostly played at the Maidan.

Gone are the days when offices would empty before schedule during a Mohun Bagan-East Bengal match. Boseda, Ghoseda, masi maternal aunt), pisis(paternal aunt) and kakus (uncle) would get together and huddle over transistors with a somewhat tense face to organise support for either Bagan or East Bengal. Life used to come to a standstill.

Today in Calcutta we do get to see such football fans. But those has been restricted to only when there is a Bagan-EB match. Other teams exist but they are doing a mere formality. As for today’s generation of hiphop Bengalis (aloo dum, jhaal muri has been taken over by McDonald, burger, pizza and cola drinks has punched out kullar chais), cricket has knocked football off its pedestal. The jazzy marketing strategies of cricket or because of a certain Ganguly from Behala. Even those who still love football follow Manchester United more than Bagan and obsess over which club Cristiano Ronaldo, Ibrahimovic, Kaka will be playing for as opposed to Bhutia or a Chhetri. As a result of this lack of interest, Maidan football is slowly dying out.

The pride is gone and with it a Bengali tradition.

Bob ‘Rocket Singh’ Houghton

I haven’t seen this Shimit Amin directed movie yet. But listening to the RJs and after reading the reviews I got this impression that Amin has conceptualised the story around sales and salesman. It is a film about the importance of basic goodness.

Ditto football. Whether selling computers or football. You need to have your basic elements correct.

Well, well, well.

Bob Houghton and Rocket Singh. You might be wondering if it is a wonky idea to compare a Sardarji with an Englishman. Hey, Sardarjis can be equally good salesman like any other Englishman (no racial discrimination, please). Isn’t it? The comparision in this context has been done to show just how good Houghton has been at selling Indian football. A job which could have been done by AIFF’s marketing & sales division. But then Houghton never wanted to rely on them for too long.

Convinced that football in India can be run clean, Houghton (using his British lineage) asked for what he had 'wanted'. After taking charge as head coach in 2006, the Englishman had often expressed his displeasure and disappointment with the fact that India was lacking in a good youth development programme which meant there was no credible second string to support the national side. He stressed that junior teams should be sent out for exposure so tat they young players were ready to graduate to the senior team.

On Sunday at Dhaka, India's u-23 team won the SAFF Cup which till last year was represented by the senior team. India's victory is the outcome of a process initiated by Houghton and executed by under-23 coach Sukhwinder Singh. So far, Indian football lacked a definite planning. Vague ideas, too-many-cooks-spoil-the-broth type fundas didn't help either. Houghton started realizing that there is something wrong. He became a little bold enough to devise a plan thereby allowing the junior teams to play in regional events. Houghton must have visualised this long time back. But like an astute sales executive, he sold the idea to the AIFF bosses.

Thus, the victory by the U-23 team would have made him happy as it not only vindicated him but will also allow him to experiment further before the Asian Games, SAF Games and AFC Challenge Cup. It is too early to say if the junior development programme based on the Houghton model will end up yielding rich dividends. But the SAFF triumph has given Indian football a ray of hope.

Maine Pyar Kiya

In the thick and crowded Ambedkar Stadium, Salman Khan’s smiley face popped up on the giant screen almost throughout the evening where India was playing their second successive Nehru Cup final against Syria. Sallu bhai seemed happy to be a football ground and witness an Indian team. Even the TV producer was more content at shouting instructions to his crew to focus the camera on the superstar.

But amid the cacophony, my mobile phone rang. “Is Sallu still at the stadium?” One of my friends (who however is a Page 3 journo) was deeply interested in Sallu but not about an Indian win. I got a bit angry. But I remained calm. In between, Renedy (Singh) had just scored a gem of a goal from a free-kick to give India the lead. The 30,000 odd fans broke into delirious joy. The noise was defeaning.

And once the phone rang: “Is Sallu still at the stadium?” This time I got pissed off with this caller. Later the the calls became too frequent. I was loosing my patience more because Syria had equalised. The match was stretching towards the tie-breaker. It was 9.30pm. I was becoming a little uneasy because of edition deadline. But this journo still didn't keep quite. There was another call. Then I had decided to play a prank. I sms'd. And it read: "Sallu had left the stadium and went to Jama Masjid to break his Ramzan fast. There he would meet a local pehelwan who would take him to a hakim who would prescribe him some desi medicine."

The next morning everybody read about India's Nehru Cup win. There was a small mention on Salman (surprisingly, Sallu never made it to the purani Dilli and Jama Masjid).

Sorry friend. An Indian victory was important for all of us. Next time, please try and be there to witness the Indian football team.

Football and Purani Dilli

It became a daily routine for me. I used to hire a rickshaw and roam around in old Delhi. I think it is the best way to feel the pulse of its historical existence. Rickshaw is the best transport available to pierce through its crowded serpentine alleys. Surrounded by crumbling walls and three surviving gates, purani Dilli is still very vibrant. It seemed so as the driver pedalled his rickshaw through the thick crowd.

It is a city within a city. It may not be fascinating for the others but I had enjoyed every bit of my stay in the crowded Idgah Road and Sadar Bazar. So after settling down, I had experienced every bit of those rickshaw rides through its small galis. They are lined with 17th-century havelis whose once ornate facades are now defaced with rusted signs and sprouting satellite dishes. There is this uncanny habit in me. Whenever I am in a new city, I usually drag myself to look for football links.

I was told that the Walled City had encourgaged and patronized the game to a great extent. I wondered if I would be able to reconnect football to Delhi since there was no Mohun Bagan-like tents. Or even a literature about its footballing history. Then someone had informed me that “if you want to search for the football passion, visit the Walled City”.
Where is Mohun Bagan-like tents? Where is Maidan? I used to wonder if there were any football clubs. I had frowned then. But slowly I realized that despite the absence of club tents, football lived in every nook and corner of old Delhi.

So for a football journalist, the visit was worth taking.

In the halcyon days, driven by passion for the game, old Delhi traders and businessmen did not mind diverting their business profits into football, helping the emergence of well-known clubs like City Club, Shastri FC, Youngmen, Mughals, and Indian Nationals. While the clubs flourished, the game attracted the middle-class. Such was the clubs’ appeal that even common folks came forward with contributions as clubs like Indian Nationals or City Club became a part of their lives.

Nationals, for instance, came into existence during an informal chat between some of the die-hard Delhi footballers of the pre-Independence era. There was an urge and interest to create a medium to express their intense love for football. So when YS Yadav, Sheikh Mohammad Shafiq, Mohammad Yasin and Hameed Khan sat under a tree at the historic Sunehri Masjid in old Delhi pre-1947, it had turned out to be a sunehra moment for Delhi football. Views were exchanged and Indian Nationals Football Club came into existence. The decision to form the team was later unanimously passed during a meeting held at the bylanes of historic Turkman Gate at House No. 2383, Kucha Mir Hashim, Chitli Qabar.

Sadly, today these clubs are up against harsh reality. How to carry on their legacy without funds? I found a stark similarity between the old Delhi’s decay and the dwindling fortune of Walled City’s football culture which was once so dominant. Passion alone cannot take them forward. The clubs have ceased to enjoy patronage from the locals as well. And businessmen no longer support them as they used to. In fact, from 1996 till date, there has been a sharp decline in the interest among the locals.

Football introduced me to nahari

The first time I had heard of nahari was in 1996 when I had come to Delhi for my new job. Before I left my home in Calcutta, I was told to stay close to my family friends at Idgah Road which is at the confluence of new and old Delhi. It was peak and strong winter. Yet I was enjoying every bit of it because Calcutta hardly has its winter seasons.

Let me be very honest. I am happy to be a football journalist. You know why? Because it brought me close to the historical purani Dilli and its people. There are no pretensions. There are no egos. They are simple and down to earth who simply loved football and nahari.

A visit to the Ambedkar Stadium for Durand Cups and DCM Trophy's (in those days both these events used to be held in thick foggy winters) introduced me to some great football lovers who were from the Walled City. One of them, I was told if I had to beat the Capital's cold, I should have a plate of hot, mirchi nahari with crispy tandoori roti.

So after every match got over, we used to head straight for Kallu’s shop. Shop No. 80, Chattan Lal Mian, Jama Masjid. This is exactly the address where you would find a thick presence of nahari lovers. It was 5 pm. And the modest, small shop of Kallu was teeming with people. Men in skullcaps and pajamas are supping on nahari. I alongwith some club officials placed our order. I was told nahari gets over quickly in the space of 30 minutes. So, it's better to rush.

Kallu in his thin physique sits on the main kursi (chair) from where he instructs his men to take orders. There is a huge deg and his staff were busy scooping the thickest portion (the best part) of nahari . It was glistening in a pool of oil. Kallu, in his typical purani Delhi dialect, shouts out instructions to his men. “Oye, kya kar reeya hai. Sahab logon ka jagah de de.” (Give space to these gentlemen). Minutes later we hop into the small space which also houses the tandoor (oven). Sitting near it meant that our foreheads glistened with sweat. Already felt the warmth even before the nahari arrived. The roti is fresh off the tandoor and the extra plate of lime wedges, chopped chillies, and slivered ginger completed the meal.

The boneless mutton nahari is supple and succulent. The garlicky gravy, liberally spiced with javitri and dhaniya, is hearty. I was told the delicacy originated in the dastarkhwans of Old Delhi before it percolated down to other classes after the decline of the Mughal Empire. In my portion, the chunks of meat have already parted from the bones. As I reach the end, I used the last piece of roti to polish the plates!

I am happy to be in Delhi!